Dear friend,

Maybe it is far too haste of me to speak of it now - but the littlest love I cannot keep within myself, what more this.

It bangs in my heart and thoughts like a mad man on a wooden door, and I hold my breath each time I have to look at you straight in the eyes, to keep my lips from moving past what I deem appropriate, and spread it out thickly with my voice as it had been in my mind; timing, or maybe, the readiness of your heart - I do not wish to steal you from them nor am I banking in your swift reciprocation - the place, or  maybe, the doubts in your soul - I don’t think it’s time yet for me to say, but timing doesn’t negate nor dampen the effect you have on me, and consequently, the urgency my heart braves in keeping up with the chaos of falling terrifyingly fast into the unknown.

All I’m trying to say is that, 

I love you.

In more ways than one can ever fathom to love another.

In the darkness and the light, in the what might, in what was and what will never be.

In secret and in splendour.

It is not time yet, but I write you this now in safety, to assure you that if in case the words spill out of me in our quiet rides out, in our roaring conversations, in all my glorious drunkenness, in my faint stirs in between sleeps, in a moment when you will have thought it was out of haste and not heart; know that I have loved you since the day I knew of your hopes and your fears, your thoughts, and how I wish to untangle them when you can not, your time that I barely have; when we slept in the dark and I fell more in love in the nakedness of your spirit and heart, when you doubted my intent, when I realised what I have forgotten, and just how blessed this wretched soul be, to learn to love again like a blind man in his first catch of sight.

My love, you are the ocean - the only thing I love and fear so terribly deep; so won’t you let me swim in your waters and carry this with urgency, for the love I found in you, is the last hope I had in me.

Yours always,